


Play Me Like an Electric Guitar

by mazzyg



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Mild Language, Pining, Rock and Roll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:40:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7479186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazzyg/pseuds/mazzyg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surrounded by dim mirrors, America watched himself bounce back and forth on his heels while boring music played throughout the cabin. Rock ‘n Roll hummed still in his ears, after diving through three other clubs and getting thrown out of each one. Maybe he’d blown his hearing out. It wouldn’t be the worst of things to live the rest of his life with the memory of England’s guitar in his ears.</p>
<p>//</p>
<p>The Rock Revolution takes over England, and America is not prepared to stumble upon the result. Inspired by England's punk rock alternate art outfit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play Me Like an Electric Guitar

England’s body rocked into the flat back of the guitar, hips swinging forward, then back, then forward again in rhythm to the music and oh god, don’t stop, thought America with all the fervent desperation of a sinner in church singing gospel. 

Don’t stop, don’t stop. 

Music slid down the octaves in crazy runs, England’s fingers light as they brushed across the metal twang of strings with the familiar caress of the closest of lovers. His voice ruffled through the sound system, picking up a slight disturbance that only underlined the husky tenor. He made love to the music, and America couldn’t breathe, only watch him play in a spot light that painted him with gold.

His mind could not stop imaging those hands on his body, and he could not stop seeing the rock of those hips, and even for hours afterwards he tingled with the strange feeling he’d been thrown into a lightning storm and survived. Outside, in the dark night air damp with the promise of rain, he stumbled through the twisted London streets like a drunken man. Laughter edged the back of his throat, made his thoughts dizzy. 

Oh god, England.

Four in the morning, America stumbled into the Ambassador Residence through the back door and waved to the security guard (Fred Mathers, nice guy, had a wife and two kids that were cute as buttons) on his way to the elevator. Surrounded by dim mirrors, America watched himself bounce back and forth on his heels while boring music played throughout the cabin. Rock ‘n Roll hummed still in his ears, after diving through three other clubs and getting thrown out of each one. Maybe he’d blown his hearing out. It wouldn’t be the worst of things to live the rest of his life with the memory of England’s guitar in his ears.

God Bless the maid service, when he swung out of the elevator and giddily swept through his door, a set of pajamas had already been laid out on his bed and a cup of water next to the stand. He hated people being paid to clean up after him, but more then just loud music made his head throb. Toeing off his shoes on the way to the bathroom, he squinted at himself in the mirror. A loud, purpling bruise colored his left cheek, which he prodded with a finger and found hurt like hell. He hissed. A bit of blood spattered his shoes from where a couple of blokes had come to blows next to him on the dance floor. 

Fuck, for all of England’s prudish behaviour, he’d never expected this. 

He threw cold water over his face, amazed as always at how different the water tasted in London. Slightly bitter. It did nothing to clear his head, or calm the way he flushed every other moment his mind swung back to England. The man wasn’t himself in tight leather pants, his sweater vests discarded for tight fitting cotton shirts that stuck to the planes of his stomach and curve of his shoulders as he sweat. Stuffiness had been exchanged for some weird sex god.

America’s stomach flipped over, and he couldn’t tell if it was those last two shots of vodka or the memory of England’s thighs and ass in leather.

All he could hear in his sleep was England’s voice, and all he could see the rocking movement of England’s hips, and all he could want was England’s hands playing him like an electric guitar.

**Author's Note:**

> This is maybe six years old, but I'm still amused by the idea of America seeing the punk rock revolution in England and being completely thrown for a loop. I hope you are too.


End file.
